An Elf's Choices
by Jormund Elver
Summary: The Wilds are not usually a place for cozy fireside chats but a Templar and a Mage manage to learn something of each other. A story of an elf's choices and the impact they left on the world. Neria x Alistair
1. Prologue

_I do not own anything that you may remember from playing Dragon Age: Origins. Anything you do not I gladly claim the blame for._

_**A/N: **__It's the second attempt at writing this fic from my end – got as far as the first chapter with the earlier one before realising it didn't come together in my mind as nicely as I like my fics to be. Made some sweeping changes, kept in the bits I'd liked and voila! Hope this thing's palatable._

**Prologue**

There was definitely something warm and comforting about the Fade, though she stood on unfamiliar ground; in what looked like a Fortress. It was a little like Ostagar, if anything. Neria yawned. She'd love to get some sleep. There must be a place to sleep in this huge pile. Collecting her senses, she scampered across the hall to where she could see Duncan and a couple of Grey Wardens chatting with each other.

_Hold on a minute. Duncan? Wasn't there something wrong with that thought?_

In a moment, her nimble elven feet had climbed the elevation where the striking Warden Commander of the Wardens of Ferelden stood waiting for her, a kind smile on his face.

_But Duncan wasn't ever the smiling type, was he?_

He spoke to her. Words of re-assurance, of comfort and indolence, of peace and rest. Such a change – a refreshing change, Neria told herself – from the first time she'd met him in Irving's room in the Circle Tower when he'd spoken of nothing but the Blight.

_But she was still in the Circle Tower wasn't she? And she was fighting the Blight. She had come to the Tower for their aid to fight the darkspawn. _

Something wasn't right.

She lashed out, a raw, primal energy emanating from her hands in the form of flame, reducing the man – the demon – before her to a charred corpse in a matter of seconds. The two other demons attacked her at that, one with an arrow and another with some flimsy spell that never made it past her arcane shield.

She panted when it was over, the muscles of her taut stomach contracting and relaxing as she breathed in gasps. They were demons of the fade, or wisps of her imagination – depending on how you looked at them, but the sensation that she had just slaughtered the man who had saved her from a fate worse than death (for what else was that Rite of Tranquility?) and her comrades, fellow Grey Wardens, refused to leave her. She closed her eyes and sank to the ground, curling into a ball.

_All those promises, all the reassurances she and Alistair had given each other when words were the only things that seemed to keep them going. And now, the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden were to end up the thralls of a demon?_

From the Harrowing to – this. It was different now, but she had come full circle. Oh, she could remember it now. Every moment of it.


	2. To Ostagar

_I do not own anything that you may remember from playing Dragon Age: Origins. Anything you do not I gladly claim the blame for._

**Chapter One**

_**To Ostagar**_

Neria groaned. Every jolt the dwarf Tegrin's ox-cart gave along every inch of the road seemed to go straight to her bones. The novelty of being outside the Tower for the first time since she'd been brought there at the age of ten had worn off pretty quickly on the road. Duncan had found the dwarf merchant heading towards Denerim within a day of their leaving from the Lake Calenhad docks and in exchange for a few silvers the dwarf had agreed to take them along for as long the road was on the route to Ostagar. If the dwarf had felt any surprise at seeing a Grey Warden travel with an elf mage, he hadn't shown it. He was a man of very few words, was Tegrin the dwarf. Not that Neria minded. Jowan's betrayal had been a bitter pill to swallow. She had trusted the man implicitly when he swore he had nothing to do with blood magic. After all, he was Jowan. The handsome lad who had welcomed her to the apprentice quarters with a ready smile. The sincere friend who had been happy to help her as she took her first steps into the study of magic. The comforting arm on her shoulder when she'd cried, hating every moment, missing her old life in the Denerim Alienage. The man who'd been delighted when she'd made rapid progress in her studies, surpassing him, the man who had always been ready with a joke and words of comfort when she had doubted the Harrowing would be too much for her. The man who should have been _her _man.

She wondered when she'd lost him. It would have been easy to blame it on that fat cow Lily, but Neria knew that would be unfair. She and Jowan had begun to drift apart long before that. She wondered if there was more to his loving Lily than met the eye. Had he been a prude? It was unusual among mages, who, almost in reaction to the Templars strict vows, tended to adhere to a more relaxed moral code. Neria certainly wasn't. She knew she was beautiful and wasn't afraid to flaunt it. As an elf, used to being discriminated against and looked down upon all her life, anything that gave her an advantage was something to be used and exploited - whether it was her undoubtedly prodigious magical talent, her status as the favoured student of the First Enchanter or her considerable physical attractiveness. She had enjoyed, with almost diabolical derision, seeing the boys who had heaped insults on her for being an elf when she had first come to tower struggle to concentrate on their studies or even sit comfortably when she cavorted past them in little more than her smallclothes. She had enjoyed the glares of jealousy on the faces of the women who used to beat her when they were girls when she gleefully preened before the vanity, letting down her dark blonde hair as her olive skin glowed even in the dimly-lighted apprentice quarters.

Jowan didn't like it when she did that. Jowan, who had fought with the boys on her behalf when they were children. Jowan, who would take her to Wynne for healing when he saw the bruises on her face. He used to be angry, as would Wynne. They would both ask her to tell them the names of the girls who had done it to her, but Neria always smiled beatifically and refused. What names were to be given, anyway? She was the only female elf apprentice in the tower. _Every _other apprentice had, at some time or the other, treated her as something less than human. Except, of course, Jowan.

He would tell her it wasn't 'fitting' that she carried on the way she did, that her dalliances with the male apprentices would not stay hidden forever, that Irving's protection would count for little if Knight-Commander Greagoir caught her flirting with his templars, that even her formidable magical powers would not protect her if all the other apprentices ganged up against her.

But it had been too much _fun._

Flirting outrageously with Cullen the Templar, watching the poor boy squirm and twist in his plate, often running away when she, little tiny Neria, looked up at the Templar in his massive armour, batted her lashes and whispered, "Wouldn't you like to find an empty room somewhere?"

Lighting a fire under the bath with a snap of her fingers and casually disrobing before it while the other girls huddled into their furs in the winters when the Lake around them froze over. The long luxurious baths while she soaped her dark Rivainian skin even as the other girls, who she knew couldn't light a controlled fire if their lives depended on it, struggled with their cold water, but couldn't bring themselves to ask her help.

Those meaningless little trysts with the boys in those sheltered, shady nooks that seemed to have been placed around the Tower for no other purpose. Enjoying seeing those same boys who had laughed about her being brought to the tower helpless with desire as she coolly dictated to them what they could and could not do. Allowing them their release while she kept a bored, almost disinterested look on her face just to torment them into trying harder. The exquisite look of gratification on their faces when they finally released their seed for her – it always made her laugh. It was her turn to insult them then, of course. "Finished already? You could have waited until I woke up at least," she had said to one. And to another, who was leaning against the wall, trembling with exhaustion and pleasure while she knelt before him, "What? Did you miss your aim or something?" she had said, in reference to his having spilled himself all over the floor. Not that she didn't derive any joy from these little sessions, of course – she did; but she would be damned before she let the men she was with know that.

But Jowan had never come out and said he didn't want her to do any of that. She would have stopped, if he had. She had waited for him to ask her to meet him in private. She had been sure he would, eventually. Surely he had feelings for her too. He must have had once, Neria told herself, for all that he had called her 'sister'. She had begun to listen to Jowan – she had consciously decided to 'clean up her act' as her Harrowing came near. Neria had it all planned out – once she was a full-fledged mage, she would come out and confess her feelings to Jowan. They couldn't get married, as such, but mages co-habiting as a couple in all but name was not uncommon. Such fond hopes! But they had kept her going - well, at least until Lily the virginal initiate, white-skinned and black-haired had come on the scene. That was when she and Jowan had actually started spending less time together. With her Harrowing drawing close she had begun work in earnest on her fire and lightening spells and started spending more time with Senior Enchanter Leborah, the only Elf among the Circle's upper echelons. She wondered if that was around the same time that he'd started to learn about Blood Magic. Ironic, that being with a Chantry initiate, knowing the forbidden nature of their bond should have been the impetus that drove him to turn his back on everything that he had learned and take to practicing a form of magic that was evil, intrinsically evil.

"Something warm, my dear?"

Neria snapped out of her reverie. The old woman who spoke had been with them from the last day, a herbalist, she had said, travelling with her son Carson, a taciturn chap of about twenty-five who looked exactly like what he was - a farmer mistakenly outfitted as a soldier. Tegrin had been all too happy to take them along, probably figuring that Carson's presence, armed as he was, in addition to Duncan's would make them that much less likely to be attacked by bandits.

"Thank you," she said, gratefully accepting the cup of tea she was offered. It had been cold on the road and Duncan had told Neria to avoid doing any magic if she could, and so she'd been gritting her teeth and bearing it. Her staff was kept wrapped in a cloth with the rest of their gear and she wore furs over the silk robes which she favoured for the freedom of movement and lightness they afforded which was so essential to quick spell-casting.

"We'll be camping for the night once we find a suitable site," announced Tegrin, stroking his beard, "after that I make for Denerim, so anyone heading south will have to part company in the morning."

"There are bandits in these parts, Tegrin," said Duncan, "if you mean to camp here, we shall have to keep watch through the night."

"Yes, well, you're the Grey Wardens," the dwarf said dismissively

"Somehow I thought it would fall to me," he said with the wry smile that she had seen on his face so often already

"I'll take first watch," Neria volunteered.

The others stared.

"You, but you're…" began Carson.

"You'll find the girl quite capable of keeping watch, young man," Duncan had volunteered, before she could respond, "So that's settled, then."

She gave a little sigh. She hadn't enjoyed her sleep of late. She dreamed of Jowan all too often – of that moment when he'd cut himself and cast the spell that immobilised everyone in the room barring her and Lily. That was the moment, far more than when he had introduced her to Lily, when she knew she had lost him. Neria was no believer in the Chantry but she knew the difference between good and evil, and had no doubt where Blood magic fell on that scale. Staying up a while longer would be nice. Besides, she'd get to light a fire and get out of the suffocating fur. That was worth something, surely.

x-x-x-x-x

She leaned against the wheel of the cart, listlessly counting the stars in the sky. Her staff lay across her lap. There had been a few stares when she had removed it from its covering, but no comments, for which she was thankful. There were worse things than mages in the world, she was sure, like darkspawn and such, but the Chantry would have you believe otherwise and enough people were suspicious of them that she understood why Duncan wanted her to be as low-key about her talents as possible.

She allowed herself a yawn and huddled into her cloak. Travelling on the open road hadn't been easy for her, accustomed as she was to the confines of the Tower. Still, this was the first time Duncan had spoken about the 'dangers' of the road – until now they had camped close to largish towns where keeping a watch at night had not been necessary. She wondered if Jowan was awake too, wherever he was, looking at the same sky. Her eyes closed for a moment. The sight of Jowan cutting himself pushed itself into her unwilling mind. That moment when it seemed that all she had known about him had been a lie. Making her betray her mentor Irving, the Circle, her own principles…everything! And he had been lying all along. Greagoir had been right – the self-righteous, severe Templar had been right about Jowan. She herself had only escaped by a hair's breadth. Of that she had no doubt.

She opened her eyes again and cast a wary look around. The fire against which they had cooked their meal had burned out and only a few embers remained. She narrowed her arched blue eyes and held out a hand towards the wood. In a second, the fire had crackled to life, burning quite merrily. With a sigh of relief – she had not cast a spell since leaving the Tower and was glad to see she hadn't suffered for lack of practice – she unfastened her coat and laid it aside. A passing draft made her shiver a little but even that felt good after all that time in the confines of the wagon.

Her eyes snapped open as a twig snapped behind her. In an instant she was on her feet, an arcane shield surrounding herself and the wagon, staff pointed at the dark figure that emerged before her.

"It's me, Carson," it spoke, palms facing her.

Neria heaved a sigh and let the shield drop.

"Mother asked me to give you a cup of hot ale," he said, taking a flask from his belt and handing it to her.

"Very nice of her, no doubt," she said, accepting it.

"Yes, mother is nice that way," Carson said, his eyes fixed on her. Neria tossed her blonde hair and motioned to him to sit beside her.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, taking a sip from the flask.

"Not very well," he replied, eyes still fixed on the young elf, "So…you're a mage, then?"

Neria nodded, stretching out her hands to warm them before the fire.

"'Ow did they let you out of the Tower?" came the next question, almost inevitably.

"I'm not an apprentice. Mages can travel if they wish. I'm going to join the Grey Wardens to fight against the Darkspawn in Ostagar."

His eyes went wide at that, all right. Neria allowed herself a little mental laugh.

"You would fight darkspawn? But – you're an elf!"

"So?" Neria bristled now. She knew her pointy elf ears would have gone red with anger as they always did when anyone tried to belittle her on account of her heritage. Not that anyone would notice – the fire made everything look red.

"I meant no harm," he said quickly, "it's just…not often one sees…don't turn me into a toad. The only elves I've seen were serving maids at the Arl's castle in Redcliffe."

"Well, not all of us are servants in Arl's castles," said Neria. _Yes, some of us are servants in less privileged establishments, _she thought, _and others work as prostitutes, thieves and couriers. _

"I do realise that now, my lady," he said, "you are clearly no serving maid. You are…very beautiful."

Neria got to her feet, hands firmly on her staff. The desire in the man's voice was barely concealed. She wondered if a little reminder of her powers was warranted.

"It must have been rather lonely, shut up in that tower," he continued, getting up in turn and advancing towards her, "especially for one so…desirable as you."

"You'd better keep your hands where I can see them," said Neria calmly, stepping away from him.

"I've heard about you elves," the man went on, his eyes afire, "about how much you enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. My friend Lloyd who runs the inn back in Redcliffe village told me he'd been with an elf from the Castle once and she was a right tigress, she was…"

The point of the blackened hardwood staff pressed into his neck.

"One more word and I will light you up like the Feastday bonfire. Go on, one word."

"What was it I was saying about drawing attention to yourself?" Duncan's voice cut through the night like crashing glass.

Carson stumbled backwards as the Grey Warden emerged from his tent.

"But – I…he…," she began.

"Killing innocent citizens for harbouring desires which they cannot act upon without your consent is not the way of the Grey Wardens," he said, with infuriating calmness.

Neria hung her head in shame. Duncan dragged Carson to his feet and pushed him away towards his tent. She watched as he scampered away.

"But Duncan, you should've heard him," she protested. "He was…lewd!"

"It is advisable, young lady," the Warden said in a patient tone, "to try to see the situation from the other's point of view. I do not know exactly what happened, but if you've been exposing as much of your skin as you are right now to that lad for some time, you would find it hard to appeal to anything other than his nether regions."

Neria looked down at herself. Her dark yellow robe had short sleeves and a neckline that plunged almost to her stomach. It was still more modest than her favoured blue robe – the one that set off her eyes so well – which was cut in a way that exposed her flanks and belly while covering her breasts somewhat more modestly.

"I understand your feelings, Neria," he sighed, "Elves are treated too much like chattel in this land and in different circumstances I would not have stopped you from teaching him a lesson, but Grey Wardens are still eyed with suspicion in some parts of Ferelden and there would have been no way this could have ended without some incident. Anyway, you had better take some rest now. I will stay till morning."

"It's not necessary, Duncan," she replied, "In fact I'd rather stay."

"We have a long journey tomorrow, Neria, and we aren't likely to find a wagon going towards Ostagar. Rest."

"Duncan, I…I'd rather not sleep."

He only gave her a questioning look.

"Dreams," she said, not caring to elaborate.

"Not a good sign. About your friend from the tower?"

"Jowan," she said, "About Jowan. And the blood. Oh, all the blood!" Suddenly it seemed as though the emotions welling up in her were too much to resist, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks. "I loved him, Duncan. If he wouldn't have me for his mate, I'd have gladly been his sister. He lied to me. He betrayed me – he made me an outcast from the only family I've known. I couldn't bear the look in Irving's eyes – Irving, who's been a father to me in so many ways."

"What do you dream of?" Duncan asked, as she crumpled to her knees, still holding on to her staff.

"Of him plunging that knife into me," she replied, "of it ending right there. He had been everything to me, Duncan. I'd have done anything for him - and I did. If he had only told me he was really practising – that filthy magic – I'd have told him, I'd have advised him, I'd have – have found a way out somehow."

"He did not realise what a friend he had in you, Neria."

"It feels as though everything I've known – was false, somehow. I feel evil, Duncan. Maybe you should have let Gregoir take me, maybe you should…."

"The Grey Wardens are your future, child," said Duncan softly, "Think not to the past. The loyalty you felt for Jowan is commendable, but that is now pledged to the Grey Wardens. Your sole duty is to protect the land against the blight. The past – is the past. Ferelden needs you to be strong."

x-x-x-x-x

Blood. It was all over her. Whose blood was it? Jowan's? Her own? Was it Carson's? Had she slain him after all? Was it Lily's? Had she murdered that silly bitch in a fit of jealousy? It was the blood from the phylactery, of course. But whose phylactery was it? The shattered glass on the floor seemed to form a name. That – that was an N, and an E. Then – was that an R?

She awoke with a start. Sweat seemed to glisten from every pore on her body. With a groan Neria buried her head in her hands. Grabbing hold of her staff, she crouched to the tent's opening and looked out. _Still dark_, she cursed. She could see the tent of Carson and his mother opposite her own.

She crawled out and sat under the sky. A faint glow of light and the sounds of a sword being polished behind her tent indicated Duncan was awake. She sobbed silently, for the past she had left behind, for the future she had wanted and now knew she could not have.

"Is something wrong, my lady?" the whisper made her look up. It was Carson, looking genuinely concerned.

"'Tis nothing. I…have trouble sleeping," she returned in a low tone.

"Is it the thought of the darkspawn you are going to fight? It would scare the wits out of anyone," he said.

"It's not what I'm going to do, Carson. It's what I should have-"

"I am sorry for what passed earlier – I," he began to fumble an apology.

Neria raised her finger to his lips and then placed it in his hand. She silently cursed her body for it's needs. Two months of celibacy had been easy to deal with when the Harrowing and her studies occupied her mind – and thinking about Jowan taking her on the luxurious bed that mages were allotted were enough to let her pleasure herself while she bathed. Now there was none of that, and her body protested its needs all too urgently as she looked at the dishevelled, unprepossessing farmer. Maybe it would stop the dreams, at any rate, at least if he managed to bring her to finish.

A puzzled farmer followed her into her tent.

"You said I was beautiful." She said. It was a statement, not a question. Before his widening eyes, Neria removed her cloak and thrust it aside. At a gesture of her hand the inside of the tent glowed in a dim blue light. She stood before him, a strip of cloth all that covered her breasts and her womanhood. Her silky shoulder-length blonde hair framed her full-cheeked, sharp-nosed face. Large blue eyes gazed upon him with an urgent plea. She was lithe and muscular, her breasts small but shapely, her stomach taut and hard. Closing her eyes, she unclasped the cloth covering her breasts and cast it aside. The farmer let out a gasp as her nipples, hardened as much by desire as the cold, stood proudly before him. In another graceful motion, she divested herself of the last vestiges of modesty and stood before him as the Maker had made her.

"You are…a Goddess," he whispered, falling to his knees.

"Tomorrow I go to Ostagar, to fight darkspawn. Tonight, help me forget they exist. Our paths shall never cross again."

"I have never…been with one such as you," he stammered, his tone close to reverence - though the lust, too, was unmistakable.

"And you never will again," she said, a gesture dimming the light to a dull glow as she began to unfasten his armour, "But I promise you'll never forget tonight."

x-x-x-x-x

"Neria? Are you awake? We leave immediately!"

She struggled to her feet at Duncan's shout. She dressed quickly, leaving her lover in her tent as she grabbed her staff and stepped out.

"I'm here," she said, rubbing her eyes.

"You've taken everything you need from the tent?"

"Yes, I just need to take my pack from the wagon."

He accompanied her to where Tegrin was sorting out his wares. Apart from Carson and his mother there had been four others with them in the wagon, a peasant family who had paid for the ride but none had awoken yet. She extricated her belongings and turned to face Duncan. Behind him she noticed Carson crawl out of the tent and struggle to his feet - unsuccessfully.

"I'm glad you've at least left the man alive," Duncan said drily.

"I…err…" she blushed red to the very tips of her ears. Carson finally managed to get on his feet and began to stagger towards them.

"Irving had mentioned your…appetites."

"He knew?" If she could have blushed any redder, she would have, but her dark skin had taken as much colour as it could.

"I doubt anything goes on in that Tower Irving doesn't know about," Duncan replied, with an expression as close to a humorous smile as she would ever see from him, "I'm only sorry I'm too old to attract your attention – or should I be grateful? Do you want to bid farewell to your friend."

"I…err…give me a moment," she muttered, darting over to him to spare him the embarrassment of falling again. She returned a few moments later having bid an apologetic farewell to the man who swore that nothing would ever compare to this for as long as he lived.

"To Ostagar?" the Warden Commander asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"To Ostagar," she murmured, keeping hers fixed firmly on the ground.


	3. The Cutpurse

_I do not own anything that you may remember from playing Dragon Age: Origins. Anything you do not I gladly claim the blame for._

**Chapter Two**

_**The Cut-purse**_

"You're not from Ferelden, are you?"

"That depends on whether Ferelden wants to claim ownership of its mages," Neria replied guardedly.

"I see your point. Have a bit of rabbit."

Neria scowled. She realised that the templar-turned-Warden was trying to be friendly but she wasn't inclined to trust a templar, even one who had forsworn his vows. It was their second day in the Korcari Wilds now, hunting for darkspawn blood (they had managed to fill the third vial earlier) and the Grey Warden treaties of which they had seen no sign yet. She had proven her worth in battle many times over, even to the doubting Ser Jory, the heavyset knight from Redcliffe. The first wolf attack had been repelled with ease as she had unleashed a storm of lightning in the middle of the pack. Their encounter with darkspawn had been more of a challenge – nothing could have prepared her for the horror of facing down one of those creatures. But they died, just as surely as the wolves had, the archers slain by Daveth's arrows before the others were chopped down by Alistair and Jory.

She decided she rather liked Daveth. He wasn't handsome exactly, but attractive in a rakish sort of way, and certainly as smooth a talker as she had ever encountered. He spoke a lot, too and was generally the life and soul of the party. They were sitting around a fire, the remains of the campsite where the misguided missionary Rigby had once made his camp. The darkspawn they encountered there had proven a particular challenge, but even they had fallen eventually, Alistair plunging his sword through the last of them. Daveth and Jory had been badly injured by the end of that one, and though they had bandaged them up, they were still resting in their tents.

She and Alistair had been taking their meal of roasted rabbit quietly until he had posed the question.

"My mother was from Rivain," she relented.

"Ah. I thought you were too dark-skinned for a Fereldan!" said Alistair triumphantly.

"So you're not only beautiful but exotic into the bargain?" broke in Daveth, with a crooked smile. "Perfect!"

She smiled at him as he clambered out of the tent.

"Save the superlatives for later," she laughed, "when you're better able to appreciate my more exotic traits! Are you feeling better?"

"Right as rain," he grinned, and presented her with a bottle of ale. "Nicked this from the Quartermaster's special supply before we set out. Thought you'd like a swig."

She thanked him and took a sip before passing it to Alistair.

"How's Jory?" she asked.

"Was sleeping soundly when I came to, but he seems all right. Should be okay in the morning."

Neria was not very worried about Jory, if she had to be perfectly honest. The knight was sturdy as a horse and his injuries were not serious. In any case, she didn't much like the man. He was patronising and, she suspected, a touch cowardly. He was good enough with the two-handed broadsword in battle, perfectly capable of slaughtering the darkspawn, but a rather obvious lack of faith in the _importance_ of their enterprise.

"I didn't mention it , seeing as he didn't remember me, but he's given me a pasting once," grinned Alistair, taking the bottle back from Neria.

"You don't say! How did that come about?" asked Daveth, helping himself to a limb of rabbit.

"I was raised in the Arl of Redcliffe's castle. Lived in the stables for the most part. Jory was a knight-in-training when I cheeked him."

"Probably a good thing he doesn't remember it then," guffawed Daveth, "What did you do?"

"Oh, it might have involved a lizard in his breeches at some point of time," he gave a boyish grin – the sort that always made Neria warm towards him however involuntarily.

"Duncan's mother was from Rivain too, you know," Alistair went on. "How did you end up in Denerim?"

"It's not much of a story, really. My mother was captured from Rivain by the Tevinters in the course of the one of the wars they are always fighting with the Qunari and was sold as a slave to one of the noble houses. She fled to Ferelden when I was about eight years old – said she couldn't bear to see her daughter suffer what she had. The Tevinters sometimes don't even wait until an elf girl hits puberty to – you know... Anyway, she stayed in the Alienage and worked in Arl Urien's castle. The Arl of Denerim, you know. Two years later I blew up the kitchen at the Arl's castle and the templars came and took me to the Circle."

"Do you blame the templars for taking you away from your mother?" Daveth asked softly. Any doubt she might have had that the question was innocuous was dispelled by the fact that Daveth cast a pretty pointed glance at Alistair as he asked the question.

Neria stared into the fire. The first spell she had cast had been a fire spell too – a glorious fireball that had taken apart the kitchen and a part of the wall. It was the element she understood and loved best. It was when her life was easiest – casting spells, playing with fire and trying to assuage the fires that burned within her.

"Not those Templars in particular. They were only doing what the Chantry enjoins them to do, even if that means tearing children away from their mothers. I don't like Templars in general – not because of who they are, but because of what they've been trained to do."

She had seen Alistair's eyes on her while she spoke. There had been an expression in them she hadn't recognised – not fear, exactly, nor apprehension either. But he had looked for something in her answer. What he had found she could not tell.

"Now that says precious little," grinned Daveth, "But I'm guessing our ex-templar Grey Warden friend can rest assured he will wake up as a man and not something unnatural."

"It's that or not going to sleep at all, hey?" said Alistair, "Do you think we ought to wake Jory and give him some food."

"Do whatever you like," said Neria, carelessly. Daveth climbed to his feet and returned to the tent in which Jory was lying. She saw Alistair pull an injury-healing kit from his pack. Something else fell out with it that he had not seemed to notice, though she did. She strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of it but without much luck.

"So, Alistair," said Neria, "What do you templars do when you aren't hunting us down and swotting over the Chant of Light."

"I actually wasn't very good at memorising the Chant," confessed Alistair, "Got sent to the kitchens to scrub the dishes more times than anyone else in Chantry history for forgetting my lines."

"Maybe you just had a poor memory?" she said, a trifle saucily.

"Oh I'm sure that was true too. I never remembered which shoe to put on which foot either."

With a snap of her fingers she made the fire flare up just about enough to force Alistair to shut his eyes. A quick dart of her hand and she had the object that had fallen out from Alistairs' pack in her hand. She opened her hand to look at it just as Alistair opened his eyes. It was a bronze soldier – a replica of Cormac, if she recalled correctly.

"Hey! What did you -?" he protested.

"A little too old to play with dolls, I'd have thought, Alistair."

"It's a figurine, not a doll," he replied, colouring.

"So that's what templars do in their spare time – play with dolls?"

He made a swipe for her hand to reclaim it, but the elf was too quick for him, rolling to her other side, out of his reach.

"Cormac was a real hero. He killed the evil witch Flemeth, who used to live out here in these very wilds," Alistair shouted, "And you'd better return that if you don't want me to forget I'm not a templar any more."

She tossed the figurine back at him with an angry glare.

"Oh yes, that's right, Alistair. Once a templar always a templar, isn't it? Fight the newly-harrowed mage over a doll. Make your Revered Mother very proud of you, I'm sure, when you take home my corpse and lie that I tried to posses your mind using Blood magic."

He jumped to his feet, bristling with anger.

"I will do no such thing, elf!" he sputtered, "The Templars are not a bunch of bloodthirsty mage-killers as you seem to think. We exist to protect against abominations and maleficars and to that end take our vows -."

"Don't tell me about your vows. I've known enough Templars only too willing to 'forget' their vows for a few minutes. In fact, apart from Cullen, I can't think of any of the other initiates who really took that vow of chastity seriously."

"Cullen? I know Cullen, actually. An exemplary templar if there ever was one."

"How do you know him? I don't remember seeing you at the Tower."

"Knight-Commander Greagoir visited the Redcliffe chantry sometimes and used to bring him along. I always found him a little…odd."

Neria allowed herself a laugh, "He's odd all right. I do think he has a huge crush on me. He keeps trying to flirt with me and then runs away when I show any signs of reciprocating. I often wondered if it was more than just lust."

"So you're the one he was talking about!" Alistair said, chucking the now-empty bottle into the fireplace.

"Cullen spoke to you about me?" she asked, surprised.

"I had to take him to Owen the blacksmith in the village once and we ended up sitting for a long chat with Owen while he drank himself into a stupor. Once the old smith had passed out, Cullen and I got to talking and he asked me if I had ever had feelings for anyone and how I'd managed to keep my purity."

"And had you? Had feelings for anyone, I mean?"

"Me? Oh no. I just, I mean you see a pretty girl from time to time, but no one I got to like too well. Anyway, that was when Cullen confessed his 'dirty secret', about his deep feelings of undying love for a dark-skinned, blonde elf mage on whose perfection he dwelled for nearly a half-hour. Something about how your every move was like a provocation sent by the Maker to test his faith and your every feature a creation of a desire demon to corrupt his mind. I never did understand how you could be both at the same time, but the poor fellow had managed to reconcile the two concepts in his mind somehow. It was pitiful after a while, really. Quite pitiful."

A shadow passed over her face. "I never realised that he had such strong feelings. I might have been…more careful in his presence at least. I mean I always noticed that he looked at me – hungrily – but didn't think it was anything beyond a young man's lust until the last few days before my Harrowing when he seemed almost frightened about being present at it."

"Ah. Well, you have to understand lust is a very powerful motif for a Chantry-bred man like Cullen who takes the self-flagellation bit of the Templar training very seriously. Maybe it wasn't more than that."

"When I think about all the times I-" she stopped short.

"All the times you what?"

"Nothing, nothing really."

Daveth and Jory emerged from their tent, the Knight looking a little disoriented but otherwise healthy.

"Why are we sharing tents anyway?" Neria asked Alistair softly.

"Since you and I are the only ones who remembered to pack a tent in our backpacks, we don't really have an option do we?"

"So that's your tent they're in?"

"That's correct."

"And where will you sleep?"

"I'll take watch," Alistair replied.

"Why don't you sleep in my tent," Neria offered, "I'll take watch."

"If the lady's taking watch, I'm giving her company," said Daveth.

"Yes, I'd rather like that," replied Neria smiling, "But I wonder how alert we'd be."

"Oh I don't know about that – I can think of a number of things we can do to – remain alert, as it were."

Alistair groaned. Ser Jory seemed oblivious as he took his meal.

Neria turned and sat again, staring into the fire. On a venture she held out her hand and tried to command the flames, making them dance back and forth in tune with her wishes. She had heard of certain senior enchanters being able to imbue flames into a weapon for a short period of time. She'd read about the spell, but had never had a chance to use it. She turned to look for Alistair, to find he had wandered a few meters away and was standing near the edge of the encampment. Rising, she went to him.

He was holding the figurine in his right hand, his left cupping it almost as if to protect it. For a moment she thought she saw the hint of a tear in his eye, but when she called his name, he turned to face her with dry eyes and a barely-serious expression.

"Give me your sword," she said finally. "I want to try something."

"Take it, take it and get out," he said with a surprising vehemence bordering on anger, throwing the sword on the ground, "unless that was some kind of double entendre, in which case, just get out."

"Right, I'll just…" she picked up the longsword, struggling with its weight, "trying out a new spell – I'll just go now."

When she came back to the fireplace she found Jory polishing his armour while Daveth had opened another bottle.

"Been paying a visit to our experienced hand? Not trying to curry favours with him are you?"

"Don't be silly. I don't think he's the type to give in to that sort of thing anyway," she said.

"Well, Jory's turning in shortly, but I'm here to give you company for the night."

Neria laughed as she sat down on the opposite side of the fire from him.

"Should I be surprised that does not involve innuendo asking me to join you in your tent?"

"On the contrary, my elfish friend, if this great lout of a knight wasn't sleeping in my tent I'd be doing just that." Jory snorted but did not remark on the insult that had been dealt to him.

"What can I say, you scoundrel? I'd be glad to have your company inside the tent, but as I'm on guard duty, our options are limited," she said, examining the sword carefully. It was a fairly generic longsword with few distinguishing marks.

"Oh I don't know. You'd be just as scrumptious under the open sky, I'm sure." Daveth said as he unstoppered the bottle, "Care to try some fine Nevarran wine?"

"I don't know…what's it like?"

"The wine or being taken under the open sky?"

"I haven't experienced either, but I was asking only about the wine. I'm not sure yet about letting you do anything to me, inside or outside of a tent," Neria clarified. She placed a hand over the blade, carefully repeating the spell she had learned and concentrating on the fire before her. Alistair rejoined them now, beginning to gather his things.

"The wine is beautiful. And who would you allow to – do things to you?" he offered the bottle to her.

She took an appraising sip and nodded.

"It IS good. We weren't allowed sprits in the Tower you know – whether from the Fade or in liquid form. Kester did sometimes smuggle in ale from The Spoiled Princess though. I never liked it much, but this has a rather nice taste."

"Well, the Quartermaster had kept it locked up for a reason – this stuff is worth a gold coin at least in the Denerim black market. And you didn't answer my second question."

"King Cailan."

"What? You'd want to get it on with the King of Ferelden?"

"Isn't he also the handsomest man in Ferelden," she countered.

"Well, if you like your men fair, blonde and stuff I suppose he fits the bill. But back in Denerim, you should speak to the girls down at The Pearl and ask them if they'd rather have Daveth the cut-purse or-"

Alistair's sword burst into a bright flame at that very moment, causing him to stop short and gape in shock. Neria leaped to her feet.

"I did it! THIS will do some serious damage to those darkspawn! I can do it to your daggers too, Daveth! Isn't magic _fun!_"

"Ah. Yes," he replied guardedly.

"Now can the queen do _that_ for Cailan? Can she?" her eyes twinkled.

"I'm pretty sure she can't, not being a mage," he replied, laughing. "On the other hand why would you want to waste your talents on a King when I'm right here!"

"Doesn't every little girl dream being a Queen," she smiled.

It was Alistair who responded with a short laugh. "You're an elf," he said. "At best you'd be his whore."

The smile fled from her face to be replaced by a scowl.

"Yes, you're right. I forgot elves aren't good for anything else," she said, picking up her staff and tossing Alistair's sword aside. The flames on it died down too.

"That's not what I meant, Neria," Alistair said, picking up the sword.

"I'd rather not talk about this further. If you want to stay here, do so, but do not speak."

Alistair shrugged and disappeared into his tent. Daveth's look of triumph was unmistakable.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

Neria gasped when he entered her, her eyes closing as his hot breath fanned them. Her nails dug into his back and he thrust deeper into her, gently at first but more roughly, more urgently, his teeth clenching almost as though with pain.

"Is something wrong," she asked, opening her eyes as she realised he had stopped.

He gasped for a little while, pulling out of her and wiping the sweat from his brow. "I'm sorry, Neria, I…came too close there. You are so…irresistible."

She patted his cheek affectionately. For all the men she had been with, she realised that for the first time she felt an emotion involved with the act. This was not about her needs, this had been what she had wanted. They had sat talking for several hours after Ser Jory had retired to sleep, finishing the last of the wine together.

The stars were bright in the Wilds, making the dim light from the new moon more than enough to see each other by. They had asked each other some meaningless questions, about his life on the farm and hers in Tevinter and the Alienage. About how his father never missed an opportunity to berate him and how she had been one of the last apprentices to arrive when she had first come to the Tower – the others her age had already been studying for at least two years by then.

He told her of life in the Denerim jails and how easy it was to escape from them and she told him of how easy it was for an elf to be bullied and abused, verbally and physically in the Circle Tower. Daveth spoke of how being a cutpurse was a conscious decision that he had made when he first came to Denerim. She told him of how she had quickly become the best apprentice in the tower and caught the eye of First Enchanter Irving who had mentored her with the patience and care that she had never known. He joked about the women he had met, back-alley thieves like himself or whores from the Pearl or less-savoury establishments. She told him about her dalliances with the male apprentices, how they happened partly out of her desire for pleasure and partly because of the sense of power it gave her, almost comparable to that she felt when she unleashed a lightening bolt or fireball. He joked about whether she was more likely to covet a man if he was already bespoke to someone else. She replied that every girl who had raised a hand on her when she was a child had found it impossible to keep a man because they inevitably wound up in bed with Neria.

He told her proudly of his greatest conquest, a Bann's daughter who had come to the Denerim fair with her father and wound up losing more than just her purse to his skills. She whispered to him of her torrid sessions with two Templars who had surely gone through tortures of guilt afterwards for what they'd done. The crowning moment for her had been when she had threatened to each one that she'd tell on him to the other if they didn't agree to her demands.

"What demand was that?" Daveth had asked, incredulously.

"Why," she guffawed, "Taking them both together, of course! They kept their helmets on, so the one wouldn't recognise the other. It was the funniest thing ever! We were in a little storage closet on the fourth floor and I swear their helmets hit each other more times with a _clang_ sound than their swords."

"What swords are we talking about here?" his hands were already engaged in taking her robes off by now.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she had laughed, pulling him into a kiss.

She realised with a start that it had been her first real kiss. As Daveth looked at her almost apologetically, muttering about how he was sure to ejaculate before giving her any pleasure, she thought back to the frenzied, passionate kisses she had exchanged with the apprentices, with the Templars, with Carson and how none of them had any identity beyond the heat of the moment. Her kissing Daveth had been an expression of – affection, if not quite love. Not just yet, she told herself, as she pulled him down into another kiss.

"There are other ways to make love to an elf," she whispered into his ear, "Your long tongue surely has other uses than talking."

His eyes sparkled as he looked back at her. "I knew I was missing something."

"Now come, my…" - she hesitated – "my love, let me feel your manhood."

They lay in each other's arms for many moments, Daveth's head against her breasts until she felt his breathing grow regular and deep. Gently she laid him down on the ground while she walked over to the edge of the encampment to wash herself in the stream. Daveth had been good, she reflected. Even if it had not been for the fact that she felt emotions beginning to develop for him, she would certainly want to be with him again – and often. For a full half-hour after his own climax, he had done things with his tongue that he swore made it far too exalted to be used for such mundane tasks as talking and eating. She had gleefully reciprocated the attention, leading to him soon being ready for another session which had ended with them both quite spent. She smiled to herself as she splashed the cold water against her stomach and wondered what would happen if the darkspawn chose that moment to attack. Suddenly, something appeared to glint in the water. She walked a few steps into the chilly water, and reached for it, only to find it was the little Cormac figurine. It seemed as though Alistair had chucked it into the water.

_Strange, _she thought. _He'd seemed to like it so much._

She wandered back to the campfire, the figurine still in her hand. Dawn was still a few hours away, she reckoned. She absent-mindedly placed it in her pack as she pulled out her favourite blue robe and dressed herself by the firelight. She was pondering whether to awaken Daveth for another session when he stirred, calling her name. In an instant her lips were on his and she would no doubt have gone further, when a clanging sound from Alistair's tent made them part. Daveth dived into his tent, carrying his armour with him while Neria remained by the fire. A few moments later Alistair emerged, rubbing his head. Neria guessed that he had fallen on his armour when waking up.

"I'll take over for the rest of the night," he announced. "You'd better get some sleep while you can. We need you well-rested for tomorrow. There's at least one Darkspawn encampment on the way if the scouts' reports we received are to be believed."

She got to her feet without a word and began to walk towards the tent he had just vacated.

"I see Daveth didn't stay up," said Alistair pointedly.

She turned to look him squarely in the eye just as she stepped into the tent.

"Oh, he stayed up long enough," she said calmly.

If he understood anything beyond what she had said, he certainly gave no sign of it as he sat, polishing his sword, but an orange-eyed raven that was preening on the bough of a tree above them clearly heard the words, "She's arrogant but Maker! Such beauty deserves better than a Denerim cutpurse!"


	4. Understanding

_I do not own anything that you may remember from playing Dragon Age: Origins. Anything you do not I gladly claim the blame for._

**Chapter Three**

_Understanding_

"Right! We break camp in half-an-hour. Everyone get ready to go!" Alistair's voice barked orders at them. Neria had just emerged from the tent to find Jory and Daveth eating some dry bread by the remains of the fire. Alistair looked ready to fight already, attired in his splintmail armour with his sword ready by his side.

Neria staggered over to them, still a little groggy. She had slept well for the first couple of nights after her encounter with Carson, but the dreams had begun to return of late. Thanks to Daveth's admirable performance, however, sleep was something to be savoured again.

"'Morning, all," she said cheerfully.

"Half-an-hour, elf," Alistair had said curtly. She laughed and bent to give Daveth a kiss before traipsing off towards the water. After washing her face and legs with the icy water, she returned and helped herself to a little of the dry bread. Alistair was nowhere to be seen and Jory headed back into the tent to don his armour, leaving her alone with Daveth. She pulled her little mixing-bowl from her pack and threw in a few herbs, grinding them together with a suspiciously phallic-looking pestle.

"Daveth, be a darling and fetch me some water, would you?"

"Sure," he said, picking up a flask, "What's this about? I didn't know you were a herbalist."

"I'm not," she replied, "This is one of the first things they teach us girls at the Circle actually. It's a fairly simple potion that is to be taken after lying with a man. It prevents – well, I wouldn't be much use to the Grey Wardens carrying your child, would I?"

"Oh no of course not!" he said and raced off. Neria found herself frowning at the alacrity with which he had bolted as well as the look of near-terror that had been on his face when she had mentioned the possibility of a pregnancy. She continued grinding in silence for a while. The mixture had almost reached the required consistency when Alistair emerged quite suddenly and knelt down beside her.

"Is that the potion I think it is?" he said in an undertone.

"Oh do they teach it to templars too?" she shot back, "I really can't imagine why."

"I don't have the time or inclination to…"

"It must be for those sweet, kind little initiates," continued Neria venomously, "They need it more than most, you know. Wouldn't do for _them_ to be found pregnant now, would it?"

"Knock it off, elf! You're taking things too far."

"Am I, though? Shall I tell you a little story of a Chantry initiate and a Mage?" her hatred for Lily suddenly burst forth in a torrent as a slew of harsh words trembled on her lips but ended dissolving into tears.

"Oi. What's going on here?" asked Daveth, returning with the water as she had requested. She took it from him and mixed the potion, drinking it with a grimace. The taste was not the sort of thing that encouraged frequent consumption.

"Nothing particular," said Alistair, turning away and donning his gloves, "Just listening to an elf who slept with a man she hardly knew last night talking about the lack of character among Chantry sisters."

"Don't judge me!" Neria screamed, "You…you don't know anything! I…Daveth's not just some man!"

Alistair's response was to pick up his sword and take an offensive stance, facing away from the campsite. Daveth drew his bow as well and Jory emerged from the tent, fully armoured, brandishing his broadsword. After a few moments they relaxed and glared at Neria.

"The next time you feel inclined to make loud, piercing noises, could you warn us first? Darkspawn aren't deaf," said Daveth, curtly. Alistair and Jory merely shook their heads and began packing their gear.

"But Daveth, did you hear what he said?" she asked, lowering her tone.

"Yes, perfectly well," he replied, moving to help the other two take down the tents. Neria remained staring at the men as they hoisted their packs and began to march. Taking her staff in hand, Neria followed them at a distance, not sure what to make of Daveth's behaviour.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

"There, up ahead!"

Neria stopped short. The last couple of days had trained her to pay heed whenever Alistair said those words. Behind her, Daveth and Jory had done the same. They moved slowly now until they were behind a piece of the crumbling Tevinter ruins that dotted the Wilds. Five darkspawn were now visible, keeping a vigil atop a hillock.

"There may be more," Alistair said, "Waiting just out of sight."

"Give me cover," whispered Neria, "They're in just the right range for a fireball."

The three men closed ranks and stepped forward, Daveth in the middle, bow drawn, Alistair was to his left, shield close to his chest and Jory to his right, the huge broadsword firmly in his grip. Neria stuck close behind them, invoking the spell, her hands tracing a circle in the air. Then Daveth's bow sang, an arrow catching a Genlock in the neck. With a furious roar the darkspawn released their arrows at the group. Alistair stepped forward quickly and took two of the arrows meant for Daveth on his shield. Daveth let loose another shaft, injuring a second Genlock who had drawn his dagger.

"Move!" she screamed, and the men scattered immediately, Alistair and Jory running forward while Daveth ducked. A circle of flame burst from her hands and landed in the middle of the darkspawn group, lighting them up and knocking them backwards. Alistair and Jory were almost up the hill now, where a merry fire blazed where the creatures had been.

"They're all dead," shouted Jory triumphantly, "All of 'em! Charred like toast!"

Neria laughed and curtseyed exaggeratedly. She put away her staff with a flourish. Suddenly a Hurlock descended upon her out of nowhere, a massive blow of his axe aimed straight at her chest. She pointed her staff but knew the effort was futile – the axe would cleave her in two before she could form a spell. She closed her eyes and waiting for the blow to fall. Then a clanging sound told her someone had taken the blow for her. She didn't even get a few seconds to wonder who it was before a Genlock appeared, a dagger in it's raised hand. Reacting almost primally, Neria's hands flashed a bolt of electricity at its face, blinding it, at least for a few seconds. She got to her feet and bashed her staff at its head, pushing it to the ground. Too drained of mana to fire a spell, she wrenched the creature's dagger from its hand and plunged it through the neck. There was a gasp as the life left its body, and Neria stood panting over the creature.

She almost did not dare to turn around. That the Hurlock's blow would have killed Daveth – for whom else could it be- she had no doubt. But she had not heard a scream, had she?

When she did turn, her first reaction was a sigh of relief. Daveth stood unscathed and Jory's sword was stained with the blood of the Hurlock whose head lay severed several feet from its body. Then she realised that Alistair lay motionless on the ground, a massive dent in the side of his armour a testimony to the fact that he had placed himself between the Hurlock's axe and her body.

In an instant she was at his side while Daveth and Jory still looked on, dumbfounded. Her nimble fingers found the clasps and undid them, until the splint-mail suit was off him. She placed her hand in his chest and felt the feeble but definite sign of life.

"He's alive, thank the Maker! A poultice, Daveth! Quickly!"

The blow had hit him in the ribs though his armour had certainly cushioned the blow. Neria felt his side tentatively, admiring almost involuntarily the chiselled perfection of his body as she felt his muscles under her fingers. Daveth dashed the poultice to his lips and she was glad to see him swallow it in gulps.

A few minutes later the potion had done its job and Alistair struggled to his senses, propping himself up on one arm.

"You're all right, hey?" Daveth asked.

"I think so. Leastways I can still breathe."

"You saved her life!" said Ser Jory, "That blow would have dismembered her if you hadn't…"

Alistair did not reply for a moment as he felt Neria's fingers run through his hair and her blue eyes locked into his. Something about her touch made him start, almost as though she had used one of her spells on him.

"Why?" she asked, though the words barely left her mouth.

"Grey Wardens look out for each other," he said brusquely, getting to his feet and staggering to a seat on a nearby tree-root, "Just keep an eye out for the darkspawn for a few minutes. I need some time to…recuperate. There would be a salve in my pack to treat injuries. Daveth, if you would…?"

Neria got there first, and brought the tiny paste to him. He took it from her hand before she could offer to apply it for him.

"You're – the mage," he grunted, "You need to stay out of combat."

"I did not see the Hurlock, Alistair," she said meekly.

"At least you saw that Genlock rogue in time. Or he'd have surely done you in," said Daveth.

"Which reminds me," Alistair said, gently pressing his ribs, "Where were the two of you? Daveth, your arrow should have struck down the Genlock before she even knew he was there. Jory, your blow should have struck at least a minute before it did. A little longer and I'd have been dead."

"They were shocked, Alistair," Neria said softly as the two men hung their heads.

"Shock is not an excuse for a Grey Warden," Alistair replied. "The darkspawn are not going to write a politely-worded letter asking for permission to attack. Let's get a move on, shall we?"

Neria thought about asking him to rest a little longer but something about the set look on his face convinced her it was not likely to be of much use.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X-X

They continued through the forest for the rest of the day, encountering a few stray darkspawn, but never in larger groups than three. A large pack of wolves were dispatched with almost embarrassing ease by virtue of Neria having set most of them on fire before they even came close enough to attack. At last, as darkness fell, Alistair announced that they would set up camp.

"We're deep into darkspawn territory now," he said, as Daveth tossed some rabbit meat into the pot. "I'll stay on guard through the night. Daveth, you can join me for the first shift, followed by the mage and then Ser Jory."

"Is it because you can sense darkspawn?" asked Jory.

"Yes, in fact we are not too far from one of their camps – and camps normally mean Emissaries."

"What's an -?" Daveth began, but Alistair replied before he could finish,

"It's a darkspawn mage. They're also the more 'intelligent' among them, as it were. I've heard say of emissaries who could talk, though I find that hard to believe. You can expect a somewhat more intelligent attack than from the average band of darkspawn which just comes hard at you,"

"That should be interesting," said Neria, warming her hands before the fire.

"I don't doubt that," chuckled Daveth, "and since that also means this could be our last night alive, I trust you won't grudge some time with my little elf here, Ser Templar?"

"I'm not a Templar, and you can do whatever you like," said Alistair, "As long as you're here to keep watch when I call you."

"All the more reason for us to hurry, then," laughed Daveth, as he took Neria by the hand and led her into one of the tents.

X-X-X-X-X-X-X

"Surely you don't need to be awake all night," Neria said to Alistair as he stared sullenly into the fire. They had been sitting in silence for almost an hour, in such a way that they did not have to look at each other if they could avoid it. It was a sharp contrast from her previous night's rather more interactive session with Daveth, without a doubt. It had now been several hours since Daveth had taken her ('Hmm…I really would not mind doing this more often" was just one of the things he had said that had made her laugh) and she was beginning to wonder if Alistair might be persuaded to go get some rest so that she could rouse Daveth – in more ways than one – again.

"Thanks for your concern," he said drily, "but I can go without sleep if I have to. One of the things we pick up while training to be Templars."

"I just thought…"

"No need."

She subsided into silence again.

A few minutes later, it was Alistair who spoke.

"Do you regret being here?"

She stared at him for a few moments, unsure what he meant by the question.

"Hardly," she said, finally, "If Duncan had not recruited me; I'd be dead by now – or an emotionless shell of a person, like the Tranquil near the mages encampment at Ostagar. But if you mean here by the campfire with you – well, I'd rather be warm in a bed."

"Yes, lying with the King, no doubt," said Alistair sardonically, "Rather than a two-bit cutpurse from the streets of Denerim."

Neria didn't reply, holding back the angry retort that had sprung to her tongue.

"What's the matter? Weren't you all gung-ho about being a Queen earlier? Or do you just take anyone you can get?"

"What's your problem, Alistair," she said angrily, jumping to her feet. She tightened her grip on her staff, almost instinctively.

"Me? Problem? Perish the thought. I was just pointing out that it's unusual for a lady to go abed with a man as quickly and easily as you did with our friend Daveth."

"I have done things I regret, all right?" she said, breathing heavily, "I have allowed my desires to get the better of my sense before. And I have manipulated other people's lust for me to get what I wanted. So I'm not exactly what you call a 'lady'. What concern is it of yours?"

"So your body is no more than a bargaining chip to you?"

She turned her eyes away from him and sat down again. Suddenly she felt weak.

"They made me miserable in the tower, Alistair," she said in a voice she couldn't prevent from betraying a sense of hurt. Somehow she couldn't stop herself from speaking. It was like a dam had burst and she felt the need to talk about it, even if it was to Alistair. "I was an elf, I was several years behind them in studies, I spoke with a foreign accent, I was dark, looked different – I can scarce remember a day that I would go to bed without a bruise on my body or my heart. I took to my books, my studies and made myself better than them. I was the best apprentice mage within two years of going there. I thought they'd respect me. It only fuelled their hatred. They never used magic to attack me – it was always words, fists, kicks – they knew I wasn't strong enough to hit back, and wouldn't dare to attack them with magic for fear of being caught and chastised."

"You were bullied," he said, his expression unfathomable.

"Yes, by all of them – including the male elf apprentices, ironic as that sounds. The only exception was a boy – human boy – named Jowan. He was all I had and I loved him."

"You were in love with this Jowan?"

"Oh I don't know. I felt I was. It didn't matter. Jowan did not feel the same way, though I always thought he would eventually. When he would not have me, I looked elsewhere. Do you blame me? My body – made demands of me I could not ignore. And when I found I was beautiful – that men were weak in my presence, that even the mighty templars, our tormentors, could not resist the prospect of a half-hour alone with the dark elf, that the women were driven mad with jealousy at the thought that I was not only more beautiful than them, but could seduce their men if I wished – oh, I'd have been a fool to NOT use that against them?"

"Revenge should not be the reason to share something so – intimate – with another person," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"What's intimate about it? It's a tool for pleasure, Alistair."

"Have you heard about The Pearl?" he asked abruptly.

"The Pearl? Daveth told me it's a whorehouse in Denerim," she said, her tone betraying her surprise at the sudden change of subject.

"I've never been there myself, but some of the other Wardens – used to. They said the elf girls there cost more silver than the others."

"So? Why do you tell me this," she shrugged.

"They said it was because they were better."

"That would be – I suppose that makes sense, no?"

"They said it was better because they enjoyed it more. Is that true?"

"I" – Neria thought about the exquisite pleasure she could derive out of the most casual of encounters, about the way something inside her seemed to explode with pure ecstasy whenever a man entered her, the delight she felt when her lips were wrapped around his throbbing shaft – "I would have to experience it as one of your race to know, would I not? How does it matter?"

"It matters because you cannot be a slave to your body," he said, his voice still gentle, "A Grey Warden must be responsible, disciplined, dignified-"

"Don't give me that. What I choose to do for pleasure is my business."

"And what is Daveth in all this, then? A tool to be tossed aside when someone better comes along?" his voice was harsher now, harder.

"What? No – I rather like Daveth. He's quite wonderful."

"So you like Daveth, do you? Well, what if the King wants to enjoy your company once you get back? He isn't known for being faithful to the Queen, though they say he's not a bad man otherwise. Would you refuse, because you like Daveth?"

She coloured. The King had certainly shown a great deal of interest in her when she had arrived at Ostagar with Duncan and she had been flattered, though quite sure at that point of time that she was not likely to get a chance to act on the attraction she had felt for him. He was easily the most handsome man she had ever seen and something about the strength and vigour of his body under the massive golden plate he wore spoke to her innermost desires.

"I could hardly refuse a King," she replied, in a flat tone.

"What about one of his guards, then? A soldier? Or a couple of soldiers? What would you turn down for Daveth?"

"This is nonsense," she hissed. "You're just playing with my head – you're no better than them – you only seek to torture me."

"No, really?" he said in a mocking tone, "Torture you? When you use a man for your own purposes, what do you call that? Let's see – you've seduced a man for no better reason than that you disliked the woman he was with, yes? So when you were finished with him, you'd had your revenge on the woman – but what about the man? Where did that leave him?"

"I don't want to hear this!"

"Inconvenient, is it?"

"You don't know-"

"I wouldn't want to."

"What is it you want from me?"

He did not answer for a while, staring instead into the fire.

"I want you to at least respect yourself," he replied eventually. "To know you could do better than Daveth."

"Better than-"

"I have just sat here with him for nearly three hours," said Alistair with sudden vehemence, "Listening to him go on and on about what a depraved pleasure-hungry whore you were; how he would show you off to his friends back in Denerim and maybe even share you for the right price. I've been trying to make you see sense without having to tell you this – in so many words" – he looked in her face for a reaction but there was none. It was like looking at a statue – only the faintest flicker in her eyes indicated she had heard and registered what he had said. "For the Maker's sake, woman – don't you hear what I'm saying?"

"Daveth is not a bad man, you know," she said in an even tone. A more observant man than Alistair, however, might have noticed that her eyes had glazed over, as though with tears that she refused to shed.

"He doesn't respect you."

"He's dedicated to fighting the Blight and his blade is fast, which is what it takes to be a Grey Warden, isn't it?"

"This is not about his being a Grey Warden, though I won't deny your point. The question is whether he is good for you."

"Does it matter? Really, Alistair – does it? Do I feel used? Cheated? Deceived? Yes, I do. But is that even important?"

"How can you say that it isn't? It's your happiness you're talking about. You aren't just using him, are you? But that's what he's doing to you. The shoe is on the other foot, as they say in Orlais."

She chucked a moody twig into the fire. A noisy raven that had settled on top of the tent she had Daveth shared a few minutes earlier now descended and foraged among the grass for food.

"Happiness? What does the happiness of an elf matter? Not much more than that bird over there, I guess. I'm not good enough to be anything other than a whore – you said so yourself. Not even a King's whore, at that," she gave a bitter laugh.

"Look – that remark of mine was stupid and insensitive, and I should warn you I make a lot of those. It's just that I do know a little of Ferelden law and a mage is barred from holding any title whatsoever."

"And even if that was not true, the Bannorn would never stand to see an elf become queen, is it not?"

"Yes, that too. The Banns are largely bound to the traditions and prejudices of their forefathers, and a healthy dose of racism goes with the territory I suppose."

"I know," she said in a low voice, "The fact was never in doubt. It was the way you said it that hurt I guess. It's true enough though. Whoring is the only thing a female elf is ever good at."

"You speak too bitterly. You are one of the finest mages in Ferelden – don't protest, I've had ample proof, and Duncan would never have recruited you otherwise anyway. I respect your prowess, you know. I would not be here, trying to reason with you if I had as low an opinion of you as you have of yourself."

"And yet I needed you to save my life today, didn't I?"

"These things happen."

"I never thanked you for it."

"You don't thank a comrade. It's a part of battle. I knew I could take that blow – you could not."

"You're remarkably good at taking damage aren't you? The way you rush into a fight – most would have died many times over taking on as much as you do."

"The trick is in knowing where you can get hit," said Alistair modestly, "and having a good shield, of course. A well-trained warrior makes sure to never let himself be exposed to a mortal blow. Healing spells or poultices make up the difference. Do you know any healing spells?"

"Not very well, but I will learn once I get back to Ostagar. Wynne promised to teach me the basic healing spells. I do have the books; some practice should help me get up to scratch."

"That would be good. I know I will need them."

"So we will be fighting together in future also, then?"

He smiled and again Neria felt herself irresistibly drawn to _like_ this boyish man.

"Hey, anyone who can burn a Genlock dead at fifty paces is welcome to fight with me."

She laughed and reached out to squeeze his arm affectionately. A look of surprise crossed his face but then he too relaxed into a light chuckle.

"Me –laughing and talking with a mage like we were lifelong friends. What _would_ the Revered Mother say?"

"Let's meet her when we get back and find out," she grinned.

"That would be a sight, I'm sure."

Neria got to her feet with a yawn.

"Going to sleep, are you? I suppose I should wake up Jory, then."

"I'll take care of that," said Neria. She pointed her staff in the direction of Jory's tent.

"Don't kill the fellow!" said Alistair, in alarm.

"Oh don't worry," she laughed, as a wisp of electricity sped with precision into the tent and gave the knight a jolt.

"You're not going – back to him, are you?" asked Alistair.

"Alistair…" she said softly, "I appreciate that you…want to protect me, is that it? But I can't blame him for the way he's conditioned to think about someone like me."

"At least don't let him have his way with you," said Alistair, "He doesn't deserve that joy."

She gave him a wan smile.

"Maybe some other day, Alistair. Maybe you'll be the proud protector of my honour, the brave knight defending the poor damsel. But today is not that day. Leave me be."

He watched her disappear into her tent with a sigh and turned to face Jory who had emerged from his tent, fully armoured.

"Well, Ser Knight. If you'll settle down, we still have a long night ahead of us. Do you hear that cawing? Noisy little bird, isn't it?"

The inscrutable eyes of the orange-eyed raven gazed down upon them. It was fortunate, perhaps, that birds did not talk. This one didn't have a very high opinion of Alistair.


End file.
